I picked up a masterpiece of gold, black diamonds, and emeralds, marveling at how the gems glittered in the troll-light. The tiara alone would be worth a small fortune. The box of jewels Zoé was sorting through was worth enough to buy whole estates. Yet she showed less reverence for gems than she had the shoes I wore on my feet.
“That one is gaudy,” she said, plucking the tiara from my hands. “This is better. And these.” She handed me a simple coronet of gold and onyx and a pair of matching earrings. “You’ll need to take that off,” she said, gesturing to my necklace.
I touched it with one hand. “I never take this off—it was a gift from my mother.”
“You aren’t a farm girl any more, Cécile,” she said softly. “There are expectations regarding your appearance.”
I closed my hand over the pendant, loath to part with it. It was the last thing that was mine—the last bit of my identity that would be stripped away if I gave it up.
“I’ll give it back to you as soon as the ceremony is over,” Zoé said, and though I could see pity in her expression, she still held out her hand. This was not a choice—and the last thing I needed was her tearing it from my neck and breaking it.
Sighing, I undid the clasp and handed it over. “Put it somewhere safe.”
Nodding, she put the necklace in her pocket and began fastening my new jewelry. Once these were in place, she turned me to face the full-length mirror in the corner. In the eerie glow, I scarcely recognized myself: I appeared older and, if one ignored my swollen injuries, pretty.
“Are you ready, Mademoiselle de Troyes?”
If a thousand years came and went, I still wouldn’t be ready, but I gave a weak nod.
“Be brave,” Marc said, the half of his face I could see filled with sympathy. “Just do as His Majesty requests and this will all be over quickly.”
On Marc’s arm, I walked through the hallways of the palace. The only sound beyond the ever-present roar of falling water was the click of my heels and the rustle of my dress. He said nothing. I said nothing; although I was desperate to know what to expect. I contented myself with examining the artwork lining the hallways. No surface was left unadorned, walls and alcoves filled with sculptures so detailed I half expected them to spring to life, and paintings so vivid it was like looking out a window. Never in my life had I seen such a wealth of beauty, and it seemed such a shame that it was forever consigned to shadow.
As though sensing my thoughts, Marc’s light grew brighter. “I think we take the artistic talents of our people for granted sometimes,” he murmured.
He paused and pushed open a door. I quickly recognized the mirrored hall from earlier, when I’d been brought to meet the King. Light flew up to the ceiling, illuminating the paintings I had caught but a glimpse of earlier. “The life’s work of one of my ancestors, Charlotte Le Brun,” he said.
“It’s beautiful,” I said, forgetting my apprehension for a moment. Winged sprites flitted among flowers, serpents soared across skies, and men and women with jewel-like eyes and hair in every color of the rainbow stared down from the ceiling.
The sound of a bell being rung echoed through the hallways. “The release of curfew,” Marc explained, but his attention wasn’t on me. He stood frozen, head cocked slightly as though listening for something. All I could hear was the sound of my heart pounding louder and louder. It was a long moment before he relaxed.
“Trollus isn’t all bad,” he said, pulling me out into the hallway. I wasn’t certain whether he was trying to convince me or himself.
Despite the release of curfew, we met no one on our way. The palace seemed to be devoid of life until we reached the vaulted front entrance. The King and Queen stood waiting, surrounded by a handful of grey-clad, black- and white-sashed attendants. Tristan sat on a bench near them, head in his hands. At the sound of my heels, he leapt abruptly to his feet, but I found I could not meet his gaze. Instead I approached his parents and dropped into a deep curtsey.
“Your Majesties.” Turning in Tristan’s direction, but keeping my eyes lowered, I added, “Your Highness.”
“Let me see her!”
I had forgotten about the Duchesse.
The Queen dutifully turned about, and her sapphire-bedecked sister peered at me, her orb of troll-light dancing so close that my eyes watered from the brightness. “See, Thibault, I told you she would clean up quite nicely.”
“Hmmm,” the King said, looking over me much as my father did a cow at auction. “Smells better, at least.” He flapped his hand in the Queen’s direction. “Let’s get this over with. I don’t want to wait another month for a moon to find out if this will work.” With the Queen at his side, the King swiftly departed through the enormous front entry, servants fluttering ahead of them. Marc had disappeared while I had been making my courtesies, and now only Tristan and I stood in the cold entrance. He watched me with those inhuman eyes, expression bland, perhaps even a bit bored.
“You look exceptionally… colorful.”
My cheeks and chest flushed a blotchy red. “I didn’t choose the dress, my lord,” I replied stiffly.
“I wasn’t talking about the dress. I’ve only seen human hair that color in paintings, and I was certain the artists were being fanciful. It’s more noticeable now that you’ve cleaned up…” He paused, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. “And it’s somewhat brighter in here. See the lamps?” He broke off. “Of course you see them. I just meant… Your hair is very red.”
Mortified, my skin flared so hot I thought it might burn clear off my bones. I fought the urge to wipe my sweaty palms on the gown and muttered, “I didn’t get to choose the color of my hair, either.”
He opened his mouth, no doubt to add further insult to injury, but I shot him a dark look and he wisely shut it again.
A young troll stepped through the entrance. “Your Highness.” He held out a tray with two crystal glasses filled with a glowing blue liquid. Tristan examined them. “Do you suppose it would be inappropriate,” he asked the servant, “for me to top them up a bit with some whiskey?”
The servant stared at him, expression horrified, tray trembling in his hand. “I suppose you’re right,” Tristan said glumly, although the man hadn’t spoken a word. He took the two glasses and handed me one of them. “Cheers!”
I took it and eyed the contents with suspicion. “What is it? Not some sort of poison, I hope?”
“I call it Liquid Shackles. It has another name, but I prefer to use my own inventions. As to its nature, well…” He shrugged. “I wouldn’t say it isn’t harmful, but it certainly won’t kill you. At least it shouldn’t—we’ve never had a human drink any before.”
“Why do you call it Liquid Shackles?” I asked, pursing my lips. I did not like the sound of that one bit.
“Because it is a clever metaphor,” he replied, holding the glass up to examine it more closely. I waited for him to explain further, but it was clear he had no intention of elaborating.
“And if I refuse?” I asked.
He cocked one eyebrow and gave me a dour look.
“I suppose you’ll just force it down my throat,” I muttered.
“Certainly not,” he said, lowering the glass. “It is always better to delegate nefarious tasks. You know, to keep one’s reputation intact.”
I scowled, but all my dark look garnered was a grin from him. “Keep in mind that I have to drink it too.”
“What does it taste like?” I asked.
“Having never been bonded before, I haven’t the foggiest idea. But I expect quite vile.” He clinked his glass against mine. “Bottoms up!” He drowned the liquid in one mouthful.
Resigned, I sipped mine carefully. It tasted a bit like honey, only sweeter. A slow, but not unpleasant, warmth swept down my throat and into my stomach, spreading out from there. I took another small sip and then another until the glass was drained. “Quite lovely, really,” I murmured. The room seemed brighter, and I swayed slowly from foot to foot as though
caught in some unheard rhythm. The pain of all my injuries faded away and I felt languid, blissful. “Are you certain there was no liquor in that?” I asked, my voice dreamy.
“Quite.” Tristan’s eyes had grown so dilated that only a thin rim of silver remained around them. “Though I see it has made you rather punch-drunk.”
“You mean it hasn’t affected you at all?”
“I expect I have a more resilient constitution.”
The side of his throat fluttered with the rapidness of his pulse, belying his words. A strange urge to reach up and touch him filled me, if only to prove that he was in fact alive, not some vision my mind had conjured. I didn’t remember moving, but suddenly my fingers brushed that very spot, his skin hot against mine. He shuddered beneath my touch, eyelids drifting shut. Then his hand shot up, faster than anyone had the right to move, and caught my wrist, gently pulling it away. “I think, Mademoiselle de Troyes,” he said, sucking in a ragged breath, “that you are not yourself.” He let go of me, my skin burning from his touch.
“This all seems like a dream now, but like every dream, eventually you must wake.” He raised a hand to brush back a tendril of hair that had fallen across my face, careful, I thought, not to touch my skin.
“My lord?”
We both jumped, turning to look at the servant standing at the door.
“The moon rises.”
Tristan sighed. “And she waits on no one, not even me.” He offered his arm and I took it, feeling muscles flexed hard with tension beneath his coat. We descended down the marble steps and through the empty courtyard filled with glass trees and carved statues. Beyond the gates, light glowed; and as we passed under the iron portcullis and out into the city, I gasped. Thousands of trolls lined the path leading down to the river, and above each danced a glowing orb of troll-light.
I stepped on the hem of my dress and stumbled, clutching Tristan’s arm for support as my eyes scanned the crowd massed on either side of us. They were young and old, some badly malformed and some nearly as lovely to behold as the one holding my arm. The vast majority of them were wearing shades of grey, and pockets of those dressed in vibrant colors stood out like jewels in a bed of ash. One thing linked them all, though: their expressions of desperate hope. Dozens of them dropped to their knees, fingers brushing the train of my dress as we passed, which should have been unnerving, but wasn’t. Not one of them said a word. There was only the sound of the waterfall: water that thundered as it hit the pool and echoed over and over again in a wild cacophony, piercing through the veil the strange liquid had cast over my mind. I shook my head, trying to clear my thoughts, but to no avail. My body shuddered as panic crept in, every instinct telling me to run.
The King and Queen waited with the rest of the troll nobility at the water’s edge. Their eyes were not on us, but rather on a marble platform sitting in the middle of the river. At its center stood a glass altar glittering not with the eerie light of the trolls, but one with which I was much more familiar. “The moon,” I whispered, and raised my eyes to the tiny hole in the rock ceiling far above.
“The moon,” Tristan agreed. “It took fifty years after the fall for my ancestors to make that opening, and for those fifty years, no one could be properly bonded. Lucky bastards.”
“How sad,” I murmured, my panic receding as I watched the beam of light grow in strength. If only I had wings, then I might fly up and through that hole to escape. My heart fluttered in my chest, and everything around me seemed unreal, as though I was walking in a dream. “Can you fly, my lord?” I asked, my voice sounding distant even in my own ears. “Can your magic take you to the sky?”
“No,” he said, and I swore I heard regret. “Our magic can do a great many things, but not that.”
I was distantly aware of passing through the ranks of trolls and of the heat beneath my feet as we stepped up on a bridge of power forming magically ahead of us. It was transparent and faintly glowing. I’d never have dreamed it would hold our weight, but Tristan drew me resolutely across. My heels clicked against the surface as though it were made of glass. My eyes remained locked on the opening above us. Then abruptly, the edge of the moon appeared. My gasp was drowned by the collective murmurs of the thousands of trolls lining the banks of the river.
Tristan moved to the far side of the altar from me. “Cécile,” he said, and I tore my eyes from the sight of the growing moon to meet his gaze. “Give me your hand.”
Without hesitation, I reached across the glass surface and let him interlock his warm fingers with my own. His face betrayed no emotion, if he felt anything at all. Do trolls feel the same way a person does? I wondered. Does a troll know sadness, anger, or happiness? Can a troll love another troll? Or are they as cold inside as the rocks they were buried beneath? The dreamlike euphoria the drink had induced began to fade, and I cast my gaze skyward again just as the lights of all the trolls winked out. Countless pairs of eyes watched silently as the moon grew full over Trollus. As it reached its zenith, a cool tingling swept over my knuckles, almost as though a damp paintbrush was tracing across my fingers, but I dared not look down. I was afraid if I looked down, my moon would disappear forever. Mist from the river dampened my skin, and my hair clung to the sides of my face, but the chill did not touch me.
I could not say how much time had passed, but slowly, inch by inch, the moon crept across the opening in the rock until only a sliver was visible, and then nothing.
Trollus fell into darkness and the dream fractured, breaking into a million pieces of black glass. Emotions that were not mine bombarded me, and my knees buckled. I collapsed on the platform and pressed my forehead against the damp stone.
I was no longer alone in my mind.
7
Cécile
Light flared and I looked over my shoulder. Tristan knelt on the far side of the altar, one hand gripping the edge for support. “What have you done to me?” I choked out. There was something invading my thoughts. He was in my mind—his emotions, burning hotter and brighter than my own.
His eyes met mine. Misery and shame built in the back of my skull until I half forgot my own fear. “Stop!” I screamed, my voice rising above the thunder of the river. “Get out!”
Tristan turned away from me.
“Did it work?” More troll-lights blazed and the King was next to me, his thick fingers digging into my wrist. He examined my hand, which now bore a mysterious silver lace pattern, and then let go of me, the corners of his mouth creeping up. His attention turned to Tristan, who was watching him much as a mouse does a snake. “Did you bond her?”
“Yes.” The word was flat, emotionless.
Triumph flashed across the King’s face. “Check the River Road!” he bellowed, charging over the invisible bridge, his son forgotten.
“What have you done to me?” I repeated. “What did he mean about you bonding me?”
Tristan rested his forehead against the altar. “I didn’t do anything more to you than you did to me.”
“What does that mean?” I asked precisely, with venom.
Tristan looked up, a faint smile on his face. “Old magic, neither troll nor human, although we’ve made use of it over the years. It bonded us, or linked our minds, if you prefer.”
“I would prefer the bond ended,” I hissed. “Or better yet, never happened at all.”
“In this, we are of an accord, dearest wife. However, it is something we must both learn to live with.”
“For how long?”
He grimaced and climbed to his feet. “Until one of us ceases to draw breath, one heart stills, one body is consigned to dust. Or in less poetic terms, a bloody long time.” Leaving me to scramble to my own feet, he fixed his attention on the mob of trolls making their way to the far end of the valley. “Unless, of course, this doesn’t work,” he said softly and half to himself. “Then we may not have long to wait at all.”
“If what doesn’t work?” I shouted, seizing hold of his arm. “Quit talking in circles and explai
n what is going on and what any of it has to do with me.”
Tristan ignored both tugging and words, his eyes fixed down the valley. His anticipation grew in my mind. Anticipation and fear. My own anxiety growing, I turned my attention to the hoard of trolls standing in front of the wall of rock at the end of the city.
We waited for what seemed like an eternity, then, abruptly, a collective groan of disappointment passed through the throng of trolls. Tristan did not echo them. His face was expressionless, but I sensed his relief and elation.
“Did it work?” I asked, heartily wishing someone would explain what it was.
“No,” Tristan said. “It didn’t.” He tore his gaze away from the mass of trolls and took my arm. “We should probably hide you out of the way—he isn’t going to be best pleased.” In the faint light I could see that fights were beginning to break out in the crowd, but instead of fists, the trolls struck invisible blows with magic. Screams echoed through the cavern and the air grew blisteringly hot.
“Not that it will matter if they kill you first,” Tristan growled over the noise. “Establish curfew,” he shouted at the guards surrounding us. “Get the half-bloods back under control!”
“We need to get out of here.” Tristan bolted across the invisible bridge, but when I tried to follow, my feet got tangled in the damp fabric of my skirts, slowing me down. I thought he would keep going and leave me to the crowd, but he was back in an instant. Snatching up the train of my skirt, he tore the thick fabric as easily as if it were paper and tossed it into the river. Then he grabbed hold of my wrist. “Run!”
* * *
We stopped running once we reached the safety of the palace walls; then Tristan dropped my arm and stepped ahead of me. I scurried after him through the maze of palace corridors with no small amount of difficulty. Even without the train, the skirts on my dress were heavy and prone to tangling up my feet. Pride kept me from asking him to slow down and fear kept me from falling behind. It was made all the worse by Tristan’s anxiety pressing hard in my skull. If he was afraid, what did that mean for me?
Stolen Songbird: The Malediction Trilogy I Page 6